


The Street Musician

by LaskaSprite



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Implied Keith/Lance (Voltron) - Freeform, Minor Keith/Lance (Voltron), Music, Musical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21544762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaskaSprite/pseuds/LaskaSprite
Summary: Lance is cold, wet and in the middle of Seattle. Just as he starts wishing he was elsewhere, he hears a sound not usually heard in the rain.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Kudos: 14





	The Street Musician

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a Klance story, but it's very mildly implied and can be brushed off as friendship if you want.
> 
> The song is Carry You Home by James Blunt

The rain showed no sign of letting up. It wasn’t pouring down, but it was more than a sprinkle. The air held a damp taste, the whole city was bleak and grey. The streets were empty, save for the occasional passerby and a few alley cats.

Lance McClain was walking along the sidewalk, trying to keep his Converse dry. He was tall, not long turned twenty-one, and he had left his umbrella in his apartment. Through high school, he was labelled handsome, which attracted most of the girls. He’d always been one for flirting, though it never felt quite right.

He thought about this as he came down the street, with his jeans and hoodie doing little to keep him dry. At some point, a van drove by. Its tyre ran through a puddle, and Lance got drenched. At least I’m already wet. He thought as his socks soaked up water. He carried on as though nothing had happened, but inside, he was monologuing.

I’m wet, cold, and in the middle of the city. Alone. Everyone I knew back in high school has moved on, made a start to their life. Heck, half of them are married or at the very least engaged. And where am I? not working for some big company, not eating mom’s garlic knots back home in Cuba. I’m standing in the rain in Seattle.

He started daydreaming that he was in Cuba, or at the very least somewhere dry, when he heard a faint noise. It sounded like a guitar. Not a likely sound to hear in the rain. Lance thought, but he followed the sound into a tunnel. Finally. No more rain. He thought. The guitar was louder now. It was definitely an acoustic, and he could hear soft singing. The voice was male. It took him a moment to make out the song, but he eventually recognized it.

As strong as you were, tender you go. I’m watching you breathing for the last time.  
A song for your heart, but when it is quiet, I know what it means and I’ll carry you home.  
I’ll carry you home.

As Lance turned a corner in the tunnel, he found the mystery guitarist sitting on the sidewalk, as a homeless person might, but he had no hat for a passerby to slip money into, should one find him. He didn’t have a sign saying he was in need. He seemed to simply be playing.

He was around the same age as Lance was, maybe a year older. He had long black hair partially obscured by a dark grey beanie that looked slightly damp, and seemed to be wearing only black and red. Between his dark clothes and interesting choice of location, he looked like the sort of guy that would mug tourists in dark alleyways, but Lance did not believe he was in any danger.

The guitarist only noticed Lance when he was practically in front of him. He stopped playing and looked up. He said nothing, so Lance felt he had to.

“You’re pretty good.” He said before he could stop himself. Then he looked at the man’s face. 

He was thin. Not skeletal or unhealthy, just sort of small, but what caught Lance’s attention in the millisecond before he started to look away was his eyes. They were a striking deep indigo-grey, and they gave him a fierce appearance.

He didn’t say anything, just started to idly pick at strings in the absence of sound. Lance saw that silence would make things awkward.

“You play the guitar then?” He immediately gave himself a mental slap. Such a stupid thing to say. Of course he played guitar. The darn thing was right there!

Thankfully, the guitarist didn’t mention it. He just nodded and said “Yeah.”

Lance held out his hand. “I’m Lance.”

The guitarist held out his own hand and shook once. “Keith.” He said plainly.

Lance stuck his hands in his still-wet pockets. “Do you come here a lot?”

Keith shrugged “I play a lot. Sometimes I come here to do it. Honestly, I prefer to play electric, but I can’t bring it out in the rain.”

“You have an electric guitar? Do you have a band?”

“No. I’m not really good enough for a band.” Keith said, moving his fingers up and down the fretboard in a silent riff.

Lance raised an eyebrow. “You seem pretty ok to me.”

“I’ve tried to talk to people, but I’m not exactly a popular guy. Everyone thinks I’m strange, or that my music taste is too dark. It’s not that I care what people think of me, but it makes it difficult to form a band…”

Lance found himself genuinely surprised at that. Keith seemed like a pretty cool guy to him.

“Do you like to play music? Like, do you really enjoy it?” He asked. His voice suddenly filled with purpose.

Keith didn’t have to consider his answer.

“Yeah. I’ve loved it ever since I was little.”

“If no one wants to talk to you long enough to get to know you, then that’s their problem. If you like music that badly, become a solo artist or something.”

“I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to, but I’m not really into the genres solo artists have been writing recently. You don’t get many rock singer-songwriters.” Keith said, but Lance could tell from his face that he was considering it. In fact, the thought had probably crossed his mind multiple times before.

“Look, man. What I’m getting at is that you seem like you know what you’re doing, and you seem like a good guy. But I heard you play and sing, so I know what I’m doing too.” He put his hands back in his pockets. They were beginning to dry, but they wouldn’t stay like that. He turned to leave.

“Hey, Lance. Wait.” Keith said. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled something down on it. He stood up and pressed it lightly into Lance’s palm.  
“Let me know if you need anything. I’m not the kind of guy that forgets what people say. I owe you one.”

Lance looked down at the paper and smiled. It was a phone number, along with the name Keith Kogane.

“I will.” He said, turning to walk away. Just before he disappeared around the corner, he yelled back “As long as you tell me when I can buy concert tickets!”


End file.
